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| Ken Parsons, 1955. |
The
picture I chose of my dad was taken in 1955... 18 years before I was
born. Although I have pictures of him from my childhood – the way I
remember him – but I like this picture of him more than any of
those. This is him in his youth, in his prime. There's a cockiness in
his stance that grew into something larger, into a mental and
spiritual indefatigably, which lingered, even when his health and his
body began to fail him. The stamp on the back of the picture
indicates that the picture was taken – or, at any rate, developed –
in November of that year in San Antonio, Texas. The only thing I know
about my dad being in Texas was that after being in that state with
two other friends – he in the Air Force, and one friend each in the
Navy and the Army – my dad received a letter from the governor
asking him to please never return to the state or risk being
incarcerated.
At
least, that's the way I remember him telling the story. And while I'm
sure that there was probably some exaggeration involved – the men
in my family are prone to exaggeration – I have found there's an
element of truth in all forms of exaggeration.
Today
is the 21st
anniversary of his death. Some years it's easier for me to handle
than others. This year seems a bit more difficult than I've
experienced in a while. Maybe it's because lately I've been acutely
aware of his absence. There are times when I still want to ask his
advice, still want him to make everything better. I'd ask him what he
thinks about my life. Silly, really. I think maybe the reason I care
so little about the opinions of other people is because his opinion
was always the one that mattered – and in its absence, there is no
one who's opinion can act as a substitute.
That
he is gone doesn't mean I don't still learn from him. That I can't
remember the sound of his voice doesn't mean he still doesn't speak
to me. It is the blessing and the curse of children to carry their
parents with them, in their bones and in their hearts. The imprint is
a permanent one. I continue to learn from him because the core of
what I learned continues to apply to my everyday life. He teaches me
that being honest counts for more; that convictions are worth
standing up for; that everyone deserves to be treated with dignity
until they've proven otherwise. He also teaches me that I am not less
deserving of respect than others so long as I remember these three
things.
I
miss you, Dad. Give'em Hell.